End of the Road
'Base of the Tower ' ---- :Standing at the base of this massive greenish-cyan crystalline structure, it looks much more organic than the hard lines it portrays from a distance. At the base of one of the larger jutting-out crystals is the flowing line of a building of some sort, probably a stable from the hay lining its floor. The jutting crystals flow from every angle out of the entire base of the structure as if providing protection against some massive foe. :One gap in the porcipinic defenses exists, that narrow, twenty foot tall gap for the front doors of the tower, made of the same strange viridian crystal and carved with door knockers in the shape of unblinking eyes. :A singular tower rises from this mineral tangle, rising over a hundred feet above the ground and ending in a faceted point. A dirt road spirals down the hill towards the shoreline. ---- It has been a long and arduous trail - from a simple letter, a simple gem - to here. This spot deep in the woods in the northwest of Fastheld. It was Ashlynn that made it possible - and the gem. Light's Eyes are not common at the best of times, and one that size and quality was memorable enough that a merchant in Nillu's Lode remembered selling it, and trailing it from there was not too bad - and involved uncovering a theft, a horse with digestive difficulties, and incurring the gratitude of a noble being robbed blind by his own servants. Another story, perhaps. But the gem led to a service in the woods, where a priest spoke of Light before icons of the old Church, and where a 'deacon', threatened in the dark, revealed a name: Fallon Wheatcutter. An apprentice of sorts to a scourge now thankfully very fallen, the aging hunter was the one that wrote the letter, who is wearing Scourge's armor, now. He was trailed west, then north, into the wood along the Fastheld River - his small group of followers bolstered by a handful more as he went. Now, as you approach the small fire set alight in the shadow of the great crystalline tower that appeared so mysteriously a year ago, it is in the path of fallen trees, cleared to allow a construction of timber - a limbered catapult pulled by four straining shires through the mud. But these two seekers have not been entirely alone - noticed by Caprice more than once, they have been followed. Ravens have dogged their trail, stormcrows perhaps attracted by dubious purpose - occasionally lost, but never completely gone, always returning within a few days, only sometimes seen. Harbingers, perhaps. Ahead, a small camp waits, two tents raised and a fire burning, as men unload a wagon filled with quarried building stone into a pile next to that ominous construction of timber, and a man in golden armor speaks firmly to another in simple ringmail. The clip-clop of four hooved feet herald the approach of Caprice Firelight, mounted on her faithful black garron with its shaggy mane and indifferent temperament. Though weariness colors her pale features for what seems to be days of endless riding, the Pathfinder nevertheless remains quite alert, keeping her gaze on the road ahead from beneath the hood of her heavy black cloak. Ashlynn seems to have faired a bit better - her chosen career having prepared her quite well for the travails of riding long distances. While she is not quite as at home in the forest as her companion, she is not a complete stranger either, and her gaze runs cautiously over their surroundings before finally focusing upon the sounds of activity up ahead. "Reese?" she murmurs, tone lilting in question as to how to proceed from here. Above the pair, barely visible in the odd green-violet light of the three moons, the stormcrows that have dogged their steps remain, on silent wings. The larger of the two wheels to the right almost lazily, describing a very wide arc, oddly, angling up in the direction of the tower's top and the jutting, strange crystals there. And the smaller wheels to the left, a curious show of feathered union as the spiraling path also leads that other bird upward to a lofty perch. A distant, soft caw keens through the night, though its intent is undoubtedly unclear- just another high, surprisingly clear birdcall. "They ken we be a-comin'," Reese returns grimly, never taking her eyes from the figures as she and the courier close in on the encampment. "Th' birds been a-tellin' 'em." There is no consolation couched in the words, nor is any intended. Nor does she take to the shadows, as is so often her wont - no, the ranger approaches them openly, without greeting or threat. The camp ahead is not alerted - oh, two of the unloaders look up with a shiver at the sound of the raven's cry - but they work on, muttering to each other. In fact, none of those present, save the fellow in his golden armor, look at all comfortable with their surroundings, in this known Shadowed place. But they work grimly, fiercely - and with some purpose, two - a grizzled veteran wearing a torn and stained Blades cloak and a younger fellow that shares many of his features (a son, perhaps?) - splitting off to investigate the rough siege machine, setting to cranking back the arm, grunting and working the massive windlass as they do. Reese's horse certainly draws attention, as she approaches so openly - a call, "Ware, y' lordship!" and a more educated cry of, "Who goes?" - this, from a man in chainmail, a shortblade drawn from his hip, a Blades helm kept bright-shining. Ashlynn's mouth thins at the birdcall, resisting the urge to glance back as she had already done many times along this journey, and concentrates instead upon the path forward. "Strange, that you are the one who wishes confrontation and I am wanting a more subtle investigation," she sighs beneath her breath before nudging Conceit a little closer; now just half a horse-length behind the pathfinder on her left flank. Above, the larger of the two birds croaks to the other - fixing a burning eye on events below. Tailfeathers ruffle - it is no statue, but beyond that, it may as well be. A watchful gargoyle, perhaps. The smaller lands near the larger, a few moments later- its flight not up to the same speed. Baleful bleached-blood eyes wink down in the same direction, and even as a dark head leans against a dark feathered breast soft caws sound like silver laughter. "Hail!" calls Caprice, reining up at the cry and drawing back her hood to reveal argent silver locks tangled and dun from dust and sweat from the ride. "Reese Firelight fer Master Wheatcu'er!" Deeper in the camp, the man in his golden armor turns - a name does that, perhaps. Honestly? He seems ''surprised, an odd thing that crosses his face - gesturing for the fellow next to him to follow as he turns, sabotons squelching in ground that remains somewhat damp, to cross the clearing in the direction of that disturbance. "Ye wait there, Mistress -" This from the fellow in chain - turning, "Sir, y' got..." "I know." It's rough, but.. still Fallon's pretension to culture; he carries himself as a merchant's son, even at his years, his lip twisting in a faint sneer. "I thought you'd find me a week or more ago, Mistress Firelight. You have gotten a bit of rust, mm? But, at least you remember your duty." Chainmail and the ringmail-clad fellow move to intercept the Firelight's horse with a gesture from the man. "Decent enough timing, I suppose." Ashlynn remains silent, content for once to let the less-garrulous one of their pair carry the conversation as she halts Conceit. Instead, she stands in the stirrups, taking the chance to stretch weary muscles while she gives in to reflex - glancing over her shoulder with an unconscious frown at the disturbing cackle, trying vainly to pick out the avian silhouettes. As the men begin responding to Caprice however, her attention snaps forward once more, watching their approach warily. Still, above, the avians watch - the larger croaking once, then shifting to the left, just a few steps, for a better view. A few more soft caws barely audible in the night before the smaller crow takes off again, beginning to soar in slowly widening circles around the area. ... the larger one's return caw is loud, and somehow indignant. Seeing the man, actually laying eyes upon him - somehow, it's different than a thousand imagined encounters. Reese stands in the exact spot she landed upon dismounting Stranger, long after the horse has been led away, as if she were rooted in place; and how the years melt away, peeling back a hundred lifetimes until the woman standing there is not the stoic Pathfinder at all. A teenage girl in black armor stares only until her legs give out, falling onto her knees in the dirt before him with her head bowed, gaze riveted upon the ground inches from her nose. "Caprice!" Ashlynn hisses, bewildered and alarmed. Already uneasy, the courier had not bothered to dismount yet with no explicit instruction for her to do so, and now reflex commands Conceit forward - the mare taking two steps to place itself ahead of the bowed pathfinder though not quite fully between the two yet; snorting and pawing at the sodden earth with the tension it feels from its rider. Above- that smaller bird soars lazily, a silent shadow with wings outspread. Those wide arcs also dip lower and lower, coming closer to the scene below. This time, the raven is silent. The larger stormcrow, still perched on the tower, shifts, wings unfurling - feathers spread wide. Fallon moves forward, then, flanked by two - an eyebrow lifts. "Mistress Firelight. I heard of your success with the shadowbeast in the wood - I was startled to discover you were still alive. No finer hunter has the Church ever had, in my opinion." The chainmail-clad fellow leads Reese's horse away, to the side. "I am pleased you remember your duty - and the price you've yet to pay." He offers a plate-clad hand down to the Hunter - "Who is your companion, then?" It's a terrible long time before Caprice can find her voice, and when she does, it is quivering with nauseous fear. "Ash-- Ashlynn Birch, Master... Master Wheatcu'er," she replies, alerted to his offered hand by animal magnetism alone. She accepts it much as one might accept the gift of a rattlesnake, but does not rise. "Negotiator," Ashlynn quips grimly, looking quite unhappy with Caprice's current state. Ignorant yet of what might engender the fear that the pathfinder evinces, and all too willing to take advantage of it while it still lasts, the courier asks baldly, "And what price is it you imagine she still owes, Master Wheatcutter?" Now the smaller raven dares to dip even lower- circling at the upper ranges of eavesdropping distance. Within bowshot, no doubt, should someone take notice; however, the bird is scrupulously silent in its observation. The larger bird.. drops from its perch to one a bit lower, a balcony in the crystalline structure overlooking the events below. The catapult, rough as it is, is cocked - two men of the six engrossed in that duty moving to gather one of the building stones, carrying it to the arm as a very deadly, remarkably heavy payload. They work in relative silence, muttering to each other - the other four are focused on the scene below. For now, the bird's eavesdropping goes unnoticed. Fallon offers a rather predatory smile to the Courier. "Her brother is Shadowed, Mistress Birch. A monster we have hunted now and again for some time. Our Hound, here, works off his sins by assisting us - and quite good at it she is." That gauntled hand lets go of Caprice's - and, not even bothering to look, he caresses the hunter's face. Possessive. "I trained her well, and she knows who her master is. Now you, on the other hand, I do not know. Do you speak for her, Mistress Firelight?" No, not even once looking down to the Pathfinder. Reese shakes her head, silent, silver-blonde locks curtaining her countenance and any visible reaction to the would-be Scourge. Ashlynn's lip curls in disgust, leather creaking as her weight shifts and Conceit goes still with a whuffle; ears pricked and focused. "And what of your sins?" she asks flatly. "It seems to me that the balance has long since shifted in her favor. She is a free woman - she has no master but herself." The smaller bird rises and swoops in to join her companion on the balcony, so that the caws she offers can carry to him and yet no further on the night wind. The balcony is largely concealed from the eyes below - and the form on it is no longer a bird, by any means. It is with some curiosity that the white-haired mage fixes his glowing eyes on the device below - there is no recognition in them. As the Raven arrives, he even offers an arm - murmuring to her - "I donnae ken, m' heart. Th' armor says 'es a Scourge.. but.. But I got a bad feelin'. Kin ye get t' th' trees, there?" He points, staying low - to a group of biinwoods behind the catapult. "F' sommat goes wrong, well.." They are at least closer, perhaps. Fallon shakes his head, and gestures to the chainmail-wearer and the leather-clad fellow. "Do relieve this woman of her horse?" He pulls up on Reese's chin, encouraging her to stand. "Come, my dear Hound - we've much to talk about, I think. You will certainly be useful when we reduce this.. place.. as well." The two fellows do move forward, both drawing steel, the chainmail-clad one offering up, "C'mon down then, mistress. Donnae have t' be hard." "Coop'rate," Reese offers quietly to Ashlynn nigh above a whisper, sparing her a look that's both vulnerable and pleading. And then she's nudged to her feet; she rises in fluid feline lines, graceful and lithe, until she's eye-to-eye with Fallon. She does not look at him, but she does follow. Ashlynn's eyes narrow and her jaw sets stubbornly at the sight of bared steel. A retort seems ready on her tongue, bridle clinking as she shortens the reins even more, before a fleeting look of skepticism is cast Caprice's way...and finally she accedes, only to the pathfinder's instruction. "Be good, eh, Conceit?" she murmurs as she slides down, patting the mare with a hard glare after the Scourge before she is quickly falling into step behind Caprice. "A scourge in this place bodes ill," the small raven croaks up at the man upon whose arm she perches, deadly sharp talons kept carefully to themselves. She 'walks' up the limb with delicacy to rub her beak against his cheek, a gesture of affection undoubtedly bizarre coming from a raven, and then hops loose to the balcony edge. From there she takes off in a long swoop, aiming to dive into the indicated stand of trees in a single motion. The mage tilts his head into that affection, burning eyes closing for a moment.. but for now, he stays where he is. Watchful, even if he cannot hear. The guards below are not watching the skies - they are escorting Ashlynn after Fallon and Reese to the nearby tents, the Scourge waving Caprice to a nearby swath of grass while he, himself, fishes out a rather cunningly-made camp chair of fabric and wood, setting it to the side. "Remarkable, really, that you have come so far - and you came so close to killing him. Where is he now, then? That monastery, I suppose? No matter. That will be dealt with - there is so much more coming to a head - " He looks back to Ashlynn. "My Hound does not speak for you - which makes me curious how you come to be in her company." Behind him, a shout - "Firin'!" And a massive creak, the groan of the arm snapping forward, the crunch of wood and the squeal of ropes... and the building-stone goes flying in what looks to be a lazy arc for the crystal tower. It strikes home, below the balcony, with an audible *THUD*, pulverizing a narrow crystalline offshoot and sending a cloud of sudden crystal dust flying. Reese does not sit, instead crossing her arms about herself in what's almost a self-embrace. "Nae th' monast'ry," she replies, casting a long look back at the demolition. "Woul' hae foond hi' loong agae t'were th' trooth. Northreach, more as like. Whit," she swallows jerkily, bringing a fist to her lips, "whit be th' reason fer-- fer th' summons, a'er sae loong?" "As *Caprice*," Ashlynn emphasizes with a roll of her eyes in disdain at his continued euphemisms, "has seen fit to inform me many times, I already talk enough for both of us without needing her to speak for me. And you know how it is...a boring night, everyone in their cups, and I had not indulged my masochistic tendencies lately..." She flinches at the snap of the catapult, having forgotten for a moment the men's purpose, and her gaze flicks toward the site of the impact with lips drawn tight and pale. The raven's pink eyes narrow as she sees that catapult siege the tower, her feathers bristling. Unfortunately, it does little more than turn her into a sooty puffball, far from intimidating. A caw of indignation does escape her though, softly strident. Luckily, that balcony is largely sheltered from view - the ignominious scrabbling at its surface as the tower shudders underneath him likely goes completely unnoticed, as the magus above struggles to keep some semblance of balance and fails, miserably. The muffled.. "Wh.." May or may not carry - but he bites it back soon enough. The catapult's arm is slowly pulled back down, the other two afoot already bringing another building-stone to be loaded, grunting with the weight of it. Fallon gives Caprice an oddly dark look, and he nods again to that spot of ground, "Sit." It is not a request, regardless. "Why, we hunt again, dear one - and where would I be without my most faithful hunter at my side? Your success was beyond compare, and I admit it simply has not been the same without you in our camp." That smile is positively predatory - even as it is turned on Ashlynn. And.. he gestures to the chainmail fellow.. Who steps up with a gauntleted slap. Or an attempt at one, expression grim. Loyalty to one means disobeying the other, but in the time it takes for Reese to tear frightened and violated features away from Fallon - not to mention the long and conflicted second of hesitation when the mail-wearer swings a fist at the courier - Reese loses the impulse. She lingers in a horrified half-crouch, torn between intervening and obedience. "Stop," she pleads. "She's nae a par' o' this." Perhaps she is still distracted by the realization of what the Scourge is attempting here. Perhaps she is still pondering an appropriate retort to Wheatcutter's proprietary attitude over Caprice. Or, perhaps, she simply hasn't realized yet the casualness with which the man likes to wield his power. Regardless, all would have resulted in the same: Ashlynn turns to follow Wheatcutter's motion with a puzzled blink...just in time to catch the slap square on the cheek. Staggering from the mail-reinforced blow, she just manages to catch herself before she loses her balance completely. "M'brothers..." she gasps after a breath, words muffled as she works her jaw gingerly, "hit harder'n you do." And, not even bothering to straighten first, she uncurls with all the vicious leverage of someone who is well used to tavern brawls and no-holds-barred family conflicts; fist aimed unerringly for the guard's face in return. The raven hops along the ground now, moving closer to the catapult in nighttime shadows, tailfeathers twitching and unnatural eyes kept low. Though perhaps she twitters with glee a little at that punch... just a -little-. The arm of the catapult comes back, back - thump goes the rock. Ashlynn lunges up - it certainly catches the fellow in chain off guard. Women, you see, are not supposed to fight back, they're supposed to cower, to take hits... not put a sock to the jaw that would fell a horse. And.. he is no horse. He stumbles back, goes over in a crash of armor, a rattle of steel. The leather-clad fellow next to him steps forward, sneering, blade out and leveled.. As Fallon stands, smoothly, reaching to his side to uncoil that vicious length of leather there, a Shadowscourge. Nine tails of whip, studded with sharpened studs- a vicious weapon from an age once thought long past. "Firin'!" Comes the cry - up and out arcs the stone... only to stop. A foot from the wall, hovering in midair. A slack-jawed Caprice appears every bit as baffled by the fiery tenaciousness of the Imperial courier, staring outright with dilated blue eyes before the rest of reality catches up with her. The subtle *shing* of a sword being drawn, the ominous holy flail - and then the sudden halting of the catapult. Her gaze swivels to take that in, but its impossibility does not seem to catch up with her. Or perhaps it does, and somewhere inside a lever is thrown and gears begin to grind the Church of True Light's hunting hound into action. ... A boot in a stirrup, the sibilant ring of a narrow shaft, an unmistakable double-click... And Dawnbringer, one of the Crown's chosen hundred, sights along Vice's shadow-black shaft, promising immediate retribution should the blade drink Ashlynn's blood. Ashlynn finally straightens, cheek already swelling with bloody lines scored across it, eying her handiwork in dark satisfaction even as she shakes out her hand. "Do not think I will go easy on you just because I am a woman," she smirks, the expression one-sided at the injury. The sword is given more respect as it deserves, but it is the hissing coils off the lash which finally holds her attention. Watching the Scourge warily as she widens her stance, she spits at the churned earth between them. "I am not afraid of you. You are part of something that had been weak and dying for years now, feeding on itself for sustenance in the end. Her," she motions with her chin toward the prepared Caprice, "I fear her more than you." And the bird... takes flight, suddenly, a hop with wings fiercely beating as it moves upward. It moves to settle right in the bowl of the catapult, its caw stentorian and sharp-eyed all the sudden like a chastisement... or a warning, wings held spread and aloft. It is to the credit of those setting about their grim task at the catapult that they continue their work, with frightened looks at the rock hanging in front of the tower (now falling to the crystalline 'hedgehog' below with a crunch) rather than worry over the drama unfolding at the tents. At least, for now. The black-armored fellow stops short, eying Caprice with that same look, gauging the bow; it is aimed at him, after all... but, Fallon sneers at Ashlynn - the cocking of the bow behind and to his right taken as little more than a loyal hound, perhaps. "No longer dying. No longer broken - and deserving of far more respect than that." With a hiss and a slash, the evil leather flicks at Ashlynn... By the catapult, the crew is abruptly stymied by what is a far too large, obviously shadowed beast sitting on the bowl's edge, wings out. They actually back away - "Lord - defenders!" Which may be a strange reaction, but their faces are set, and blades are drawn; there was obviously some resistance expected. There's an instant, a fleeting moment of resolution where Reese's target shifts; Vice's business end nudges perceptibly towards Fallon's back. Her finger even brushes the trigger as if some loving and wistful caress... but much like whatever fantasies she indulged by burning the letter that brought her here and countless nights dreaming dark dreams, the act occurs only in her imagination. The window of opportunity closes. *Thrum* goes a bolt, punching out at dangerously short range at the leather-clad man, a kiss of death square between the shoulder blades. "I wouldn't arm that catapult again if I were you," the raven croaks, grooming her wing calmly. "I mean, it strikes me as a very bad decision for your future happiness and success in life. Turning around and going home, however..." The bird reveals no reaction to the spat going on between Caprice, Ashlynn and the guards, though one burning pink eye is fixated in that direction. This time, Ashlynn is fully focused and well prepared for the strike - she dives out of the way as the cat o' nine tails licks toward her, rolling once through a nearby pile of cookware by a banked fire. As she regains her feet, she reveals she is no longer empty-handed: the courier is now armed with a wide pot lid. And a long-handled stirring spoon. "Respect?" she sneers, leveling the sturdy cooking implement at the Scourge, riding high on adrenaline. "I just felled a man with my bare fist and now you are only willing to face me with a whip betwixt us! Do not tell me that is deserving of respect!" The Leather-clad fellow isn't nimble, isn't graceful. But it's enough - he sees the bolt being aimed a moment before it's fired, and is already moving, twisting as he circles, diving in at ... no, with the bolt fired, he's launching himself at Ashlynn, "Lord!" It's warning, but it's all the time he has. Over by the catapult, the crew is clearly unsettled by the conversation - but they shout, the two that cocked the thing waving knives at the bird, trying to clear the way to get the rock in place - they still go about their business, as best they can, though it is clear they're skittish at best. Fallon's sneer never changes - but with the bolt going off behind him, and the shot going where it did? The Scourge turns, that hissing length of leather brought to bear against the Pathfinder, "You DARE?" It comes out as a roar. From somewhere above, there is ... an answering roar, one that shatters the air, raw and animal. Adrenaline overtakes Caprice, a wave of instinct washing over her until each movement is without forethought and utterly zen. No blinking, no thinking, just acting - and she springs, gathering her feet up beneath her to lunge like a lion over the biting tails of the whip and land precisely on its grip. Arms snap out to either side, steadying her, though doing so does not appear at all necessary. Cat-quick, she bears down with the naked and unloaded Vice, crouching on the narrow length of arm and wrist to bodily tackle Fallon to the ground. Her danders up, Ashlynn is not so ignorant of her environment that she is caught completely by surprise by the tackle from the side. Nevertheless, it is unexpected enough that she only has a moment to mentally brace for the impact - and maneuver the pot lid directly for the man's incoming face - before she is flattened by his weight along with what miscellaneous mail he may be wearing. "...pig's arse!" she wheezes. The raven easily launches herself into flight, the knives soaring through empty air where she once was. But what comes up must come down... and the Shadow wraps its tendrils around her in that fragment of a second between apex and fall, obscuring just what is obeying gravity's call to land in the bowl of the catapult again... In a burst and curl of raw Shadow, a man appears in the mist of all of this chaos - grey haired and with eyes that burn like coals with simple rage, Kael comes into focus staring at the scourge in golden armor as the latter wrestles with the former's sister. Fallon is clearly startled at the woman's abrupt leap and impossible balance - and despite the golden armor, the man's eyes widen, then narrow, "One Firelight, all Firelights. We should have guessed - " He easily steps aside, around the clumsy lunge, "You were mine, and a man puts down his own dog." The whip licks out for her again, an almost loving flick guiding it at the woman's legs. Ashlynn and the leather clad fellow wrestle, going over and over until .. *CLONG*... face meets metal, and the poor fellow slithers to come to rest... atop the courier. Immobile. Senseless. Heavy. By the catapult, when the bird does not leave, the men pile the rock in anyway, as the other two fend, one diving to hit the release, as dangerous as that is with so many so close. Caprice weasels from Fallon's grip to go sprawling in the dirt, her black cloak billowing out behind her before it twists and tangles about her limbs. There's no time to collect herself, no time to reel from the force of the impact; even while her vision is dancing double from the bellyflop, she is jamming the heel of her free hand into the ground to roll onto her side, aiming to intercept the scourge's tongue with her crossbow and yank it from his hands. "Thought you were...gonna take care of 'im..." Ashlynn croaks, shoving weakly at the body before giving up for the moment in favor of catching her breath. Rolling her head to the side to take stock of the situation, she blinks at the sudden appearance of Kael, and then growls when she discovers Fallon now occupied with Caprice. "Hey! You! Wheatbeater, you were fighting me, not her!" she calls hoarsely, flinging the much-abused pot lid at the Scourge. The raven squawks in slightly disgruntled dismay as she's nearly launched into the air, taking flight only a few seconds before. "I -told- you to stop that!" the bird caws, waiting until the catapult's arm has lowered itself all the way to come down again wrapped in a burst of darkness. It seems to be a repeat of her previous unsuccessful ploy, hopefully with more luck this time.. The stone arcs, arcs - and strikes home just below the balcony, with a sound like a bell ringing as it rings into the crystalline structure. And it rings - and rings... until pieces begin to come off, to fall apart, the tower shuddering from the impact. Fallon ignores the .. well. Hard to throw a pot lid when you've got no leverage, it's easy enough to ignore, for now. The whip hisses back, away, Reese's deflection keeps it from harming her, but now he toys with her, flicking the instrument out, then back - chuckling before striking once more. "Surrender, and I will not hurt you. It will be painless, Firelight." So focused is he, he has not yet even seen the mage that has appeared behind her. Kael looks away from the scourge for a moment, in the direction of the catapult. Quietly, he says a single word, "Burn." A command, not an entreaty - and a snap of his fingers sets the portion of the cradle nearest him alight. A small thing, but one that comes with a whisper of blue flame around his hands, the mage moving forward, raising his voice, "Y' get that ruddy thing 'way from m' sister, y' son of a goat." Reese merely narrows her eyes, steeling herself to pull with all of her might. Every muscle tenses for the grab, waiting for those deadly tendrils to coil around Vice's stock, willing them along... and then that wisp of blue flame and the roar of fire from the catapult are breaking her concentration, shattering her focus into useless shards of scattered attention. The latter she can tune out, if she tries. The former... An old, old, terror grips the younger of the Firelight siblings, dread drumming its icy fingers down her spine. "Get oot o' here!" the ranger screams, perhaps to Kael, perhaps to Ashlynn, as she's checking Fallon's blows one-by-one. Never does she tug that whip from his controlled grip, and neither does she go for any killing blow. She is buying time. Ashlynn is bound and determined to make a nuisance of herself. Pinned for the moment as she is, she tries to send the next missile winging directly for the Scourge's face - the spoon, twirling merrily through the air. "Light, do you spend all your off hours drinkin' in the taverns...?" she huffs at the weight of the unconscious guard, already trying to tug his helmet off to use as ammunition next. "...you'd be lighter if you even got some minimal whoring in, I'd wager..." When the raven lands a second time, it's not a raven at all but the curled form of a young woman, small enough to actually still -fit- in the catapult's bowl. Meian clutches at her head, her breath a taut crescendo of gasping and sobbing, her slight weight not at all sufficient to break the load-bearing arm. "Stop destroying," she pleads wildly of the men manning the catapult, too caught up in her pain and distraction to actually get out of it yet even as it catches alight. Behind the group... chunks of crystal begin to fall from the tower as it starts to shake itself apart in earnest, the ringing note becoming a rumbling growl of stone clashing against stone. Fallon, outnumbered now, begins to retreat, flicking that whip one last time at Reese - "This is not over.." Behind them, the four at the now-ablaze catapult have had enough, brave though they are, they flee, heading for the woodline at a good clip. A dead run, to be more precise. Kael ignores Reese, for now - going to say something until that cry from by the catapult... a cry that makes him suddenly very indecisive, glancing back. As Fallon begins to retreat, Caprice barks out a single objection - "Nae!" - while she vaults away from the incoming strike, planting one hand on the ground to propel herself to her feet. The whip tastes air mere inches from her ear, but it's not the whip she's concerned about. She swings her head toward Ashlynn, toward her brother, and finally sets her sights on the wannabe-Scourge again, shouldering Vice before barreling after him as fast as her feet can carry her. A blade *snicks* from the straps of her supple, fingerless leather gauntlet. "You like to play only when you're winning?! I've met urchins with more balls than you!" Ashlynn hurls the insult along with the helmet after the Scourge's head. Meian does manage to muster enough awareness and strength to try and roll free from the catapult, though she's shivering uncontrollably and her eyes remain ever so tightly closed. The beautiful sound of the tower's destruction might be what spurs her continued tears, or perhaps terrors no one else can see. The scourge ducks the flung helmet, running for the woods - Reese pursuing, of course, the two making good time across the open space. Kael turns to the side, reaching out with an absent gesture that flings the leather-armored, senseless fellow a good five, six feet away from Ashlynn, in an abrupt surge of motion. Picking up the pieces, as it were. "G' after 'er! I wi' be along - " Reese pursues, plunging into the dusky wood with wild, frantic abandon, leaping over rocks and roots and crashing through foliage without the slightest concern for sanity or safety. Except? Her feet come to an abrupt halt; it's that strange, otherworldly, not-at-all-human agility. She stops on a coin's breadth a mere split-second before the less dexterous would have found himself careening over the edge of a treacherous ravine littered with jagged rocks and thick, thorny vines. A briar patch. Fallon is nowhere to be seen. She whips around, screaming his name into the night, blade gripped at her side - but her only reply is her own echo. Ashlynn barely has the time to gasp a thanks, wide-eyed at the casual show of power, before she is scrambling clumsily to her feet at the order. Adrenaline helps blunt whatever sprains or bruises she may have accumulated from the tackle, and anger helps to further fortify her will as she takes off after the two - only to slide to a more winded and less graceful stop when Caprice abruptly skids to a halt a few feet ahead. Leaning a hand against a near tree, she looks around half-heartedly with a narrowed gaze while she catches her breath before offering, "The horses...can cover more distance with them, if you or your brother have some other way of tracking him." Eyes still shut tight, on hands and knees- and undoubtedly bruised from the trip down- Meian crawls away from the tumult of the tumbling tower, her sobs slowing to a leaden flow of tears. And the tower does come down - as Reese and Ash stop at the ravine's edge, as Kael moves back to his mate, worried and leaning down to help her up - as a catapult burns and two men in armor groan and move away into the wood.... the tower falls. Broken, shattered, leaving behind a choking cloud of crystalline dust, its empty halls stand no more. ----- Return to Season 7 (2008) Category:Logs